Tuesday Morning
by kattomas
Summary: Modern day AU Gale/Madge fic. "How much would you bet on that?" she asks, dropping her book and turning to face him once again. There's a gleam in her eye that he wishes wasn't there, but he has no choice but to hear her out. When Madge makes Gale a friendly bet - with high stakes - the result isn't quite what either of them expected.


**A/N: Modern AU - Gale/Madge.**

* * *

**Tuesday Morning**

* * *

**Sunday, April 1**

They make an odd pair, sitting on the bench in the middle of the mall. She buries her head in a book, her purse discarded to her right, while he leans back, staring at the banners hanging from the high ceiling. They sit more than a foot away from each other, and those walking past sometimes mistake them for strangers who happen to be in the same place at the same time.

"If only," she groans, flipping the page and pushing her glasses up her nose. They slide down again as soon as she moves her head, but she doesn't seem to care. "Do you have any idea how long I waited for this to come out? And then the author has to go and screw it up." She sighs and glances at him, frowning at his bored expression.

"What?" When he meets her gaze he almost wishes he hadn't. She looks pissed - pissed over a bunch of fictional characters, which he finds fairly idiotic. "Keep talking, I'm not stopping you." It's partly because her words seem to bounce off his brain, leaving him unable to absorb anything she says, but of course he doesn't tell her that.

With another groan and an eye-roll, she turns yet another page, reading so quickly that he wonders if she's even reading at all. "I didn't _ask_ you to be here, you know. I'm sure there are a billion other things teenage boys like yourself like doing, other than sitting at the mall staring at the ceiling. Those banners can't be that interesting."

"I'm listening," he insists. Hearing, really. Hearing but not listening. Because that's what they do. She rants, he sits by quietly and lets her voice wash over him. "Sort of. And besides, the others won't be here until a half hour from now. No point in doing anything else."

"You're not listening," she says flatly, giving him a glare over her glasses. She doesn't even attempt to push her glasses up again, just lets them sit there. "Just leave if I bore you that much. Go hit on girls or something. Isn't that what you'd rather do?"

Surprised and insulted, he pulls the book from her hands, ignoring her slap (it doesn't hurt, but surely she knows that by now) and hiding it behind his back. "It sounds like you're more sick of my presence than I am of yours," he says. "And you know I wouldn't hit on girls."

She smirks at that, a sharp contrast to the frown that graced her features only seconds earlier. With her fang-like canines, she looks remarkably like a cat, a fact that slightly unnerves him. "Oh, I don't know, actually. You wouldn't _believe_ the things I've heard about you. Funny thing, rumors are. Hitting on girls seems to be the least of it."

He knows she doesn't buy any of the crap that floats around the school. She's ten times smarter than that, even if she can be a fictional character-loving fool. "You wouldn't _believe_ the things you hear about me, stupid."

"Oh yeah?" The smirk deepens, and he briefly contemplates tossing her book in the trash can next to him, so conveniently placed less than a foot to his left. She obviously notices this, because her eyes flicker to the book in his hand. "Eight girls, from what I've heard." But her tone is a little more cautious now, and for a minute he revels in the annoyed expression on her face.

"Ha, that's right. Not when your precious book hangs in the balance." Dangling the open book over the opening of the trash can, he returns her previous smirk with one of his own. "You wouldn't _believe_ what's in here, by the way. I imagine ketchup and ice cream would suit this particular book really well, don't you think?"

Another pause while she tilts her head and stares at a point in the distance. When she opens her mouth, he's certain she'll curse him out before making a lunge for the book. What she really says surprises him. "If not eight, then how many?" she asks, not eying the book anymore.

"If not eight? What the heck are you talking about?" In that moment of confusion, she leans forward and grabs the book, holding it out of his reach triumphantly. "What was that for?" Unwilling to make a scene in front of so many people, he moves farther from her and fumes.

"You didn't really think I'd let that go, did you?" An infuriating smile is on her face again, but she drops that and tucks her book back into the bag she bought it in. "So, you never answered my question: if not eight, how many? Because you're right - I wouldn't peg you as the type to fall for so many girls at once. That was a veiled compliment, by the way," she adds as an afterthought.

"Veiled compliment?" he asks. All he hears is a veiled insult.

More eye-rolling. He's beginning to be irritated by her antics. "Consider that on your own time. And answer the question - I'll bug you until you tell me. One? Two? Four?" she asks, speculating. "Four's a bit many, I would think, but to each his own..."

"You skipped three," he says, momentarily forgetting what she would interpret that as. It's too late by the time he does realize, because she's staring at him, laughing. "That's not what I meant!" He's starting to wish he'd taken up her suggestion to leave. Perhaps he should make an attempt for the book again.

"Three! Really? Is it possible to like so many people at once?" Behind the snide tone is one of genuine curiosity, something that he wouldn't think he'd hear from her, which he feels he should exploit.

"Like you wouldn't know," he throws back. "How many guys have you dated? Ten?" He's perfectly aware that bringing this up will only make her depressed and pissed, two things he's learned to avoid over the past years, but at the moment he doesn't really care. "You were a jerk to that last one, weren't you?"

It works. She immediately loses all interest in his love life, only interested in defending her own. "It was not _ten_," she hisses, doing the cat thing with the narrowed eyes and glare. "_Three_ is a far cry from ten, as you well know. And who are you to judge me? I'm not the one stuck here, on a bench in the middle of the mall, while the rest of your friends sneak off to secluded corners!"

Like she is most of the time (most of the time), she's right. There's something about tagging along with a group of friends, only to have them ignore him for the girl on his arm. Depressing? He wouldn't go so far. But it's definitely how he saw himself spending his Sunday. "I choose to," he says, not liking where the conversation has headed.

"You wouldn't find anyone, anyone. And don't give me the crap about choosing to. You'd be right there with them, if you could." Turning her whole body away from him, she takes out her book - again - and starts rapidly flipping the pages.

Not about to let that go, he pokes her, since if he did anything more she'd punch him. (even if it doesn't hurt, he'd rather not risk it) "Of course I could if I wanted to," he says. "Just because you can't get a decent guy doesn't mean I can't."

"I'm sure you could get a decent guy," she replies, her back still turned to him but her tone just slightly lighter. He's sure she's smiling, and it frustrates him.

"I'm serious! I could ask anyone out. And she'd say yes." That's a bold faced lie - as there's no girl he'd want to date anyway - but she's too busy reading. In a minute she'll be in her own fictional world, and he'll go back to staring at the ceiling, ignoring the curious looks of the steady flow of strangers passing their bench.

"How much would you bet on that?" she asks, dropping her book and turning to face him once again. There's a gleam in her eye that he wishes wasn't there, but he has no choice but to hear her out. "How much do you want to bet that you _can_ get a girlfriend - in a certain period of time? Should be easy, right?"

Now's the time to walk away and leave her to her book, but he wonders what she's willing to stake on this. "How long?"

After a second of thinking, her fingers drumming a beat into the wood, she says, "One month. You have until May 1 to successfully ask the girl of your choice out. And she has to stay with you for another month, so choose wisely. Also... if you lose, I get to pick the girl. You won't like it, I promise."

It doesn't sound all that great for him. For all he's said, he doesn't think he can get anyone to fall for him long enough to fulfill the terms of the bet. But there's one good thing that could come out of it if he _does_ win - whatever she agrees to in return. "If I win, I get to pick the guy - for you. You won't like it, I promise." His tone towards the end is slightly mocking, but if she notices she doesn't mention it.

"Deal," she says, without a hint of hesitation. "You have until midnight on May 1. Have fun snagging that girl." With the conversation over, she returns to her book, muttering about bad writing and stupid authors. Between all her complaints, though, he can swear he sees the ghost of a smirk on her lips, as if she's already determined the outcome of this bet.

It's distinctly unsettling, but he ignores it and looks at the ceiling once more.

* * *

**Wednesday, April 4**

When Wednesday comes, he finally decides he has to tell his friends, before they find out from her or one of _her _friends. He waits until the passing period right before lunch, meeting them in the empty hallway and leaning against one of the lockers.

They all arrive soon enough, and as soon as her name is mentioned, he takes that as his cue to start. It takes all of thirty seconds, and he regrets it right afterwards. Who cares who they find out from? If he's lucky, they never have to know. He could settle this with her - quietly. Because he doubts she'd ever follow through.

There's always that chance, though...

"You're joking, right? This is all one massive April Fool's Joke that's not only three days late but also completely lame?"

He wishes it was a joke. Looking back on it, that was not a move he should have made. She's probably laughing it off with her friends, plotting and deciding which girl is both the ugliest and the most annoying. There's always the second option - screw the bet and deny all claims that he agreed to it, but he saves that for later.

"He's not saying anything. Why would you do something like that?" To his right, his friend shakes his head, apparently exasperated. He punches him on the shoulder, frowning. "What were you thinking? There's no way you can charm a girl enough in _one_ month!"

"You do realize that she thinks she has one over you, right? She's never going to stop irritating you if she thinks she's won. Don't you complain all the time about how annoying she is?"

"We never should have left you there," someone else says. "An hour alone and you've got yourself in this thing. You could have just walked around or something until we came back. It's the mall, You should have knocked yourself out hitting on the girls."

He has a feeling that she never would have stopped glaring at him if had done that.

"Get over it," he finally says, already sick of the bet. Three days and he's been driven crazy just wondering how he'll pull this off. That second option looks more and more appealing by the minute. "I'll just pull out at the last minute. Make her look like the idiot." It's the easiest way out, and the only thing holding him back is the thought of a whack on the head with one of her books. Soon, even that won't be enough.

They all nod, glad that he hasn't _completely_ lost all of his senses. "Good idea. I doubt she'll remember in a few days, anyway. She has the worst memory of anyone I've ever met. It's amazing that she manages to get all her homework done, let alone pull passing grades in everything."

Actually, he happens to know that she stays up most nights, making flashcards and quizzing herself, just so she can maintain her A's in chemistry and geometry. And the notebook she always carries - full to the brim with history notes that she crams in her brain before tests. But he doesn't say a word.

When she winks at him from across the lunch room, unnoticed by everyone else but him, he resolutely ignores her and switches seats with his friend across from him.

* * *

**Saturday, April 7**

He tries, in a manner of speaking. He emails a girl he once liked, but he can tell right away it's useless. She uses far too many exclamation marks and doesn't realize that putting a smiley face after everything she says doesn't convey happiness, but insanity.

"Hey!" he reads, fighting the urge to delete the message so he doesn't have to read anymore. "We should definitely meet up some time! :) Maybe this weekend, when I don't have so much homework. :) You'll love meeting my friends! Do you remember them? :) They all want to know if you're still emo!"

Without a shred of doubt he knows that any girl she chooses for him can't be worse than this one, so he deposits the email in his deleted folder without any regrets.

* * *

**Thursday, April 12**

He's going to kill his history teacher, he decides. Something with guns, preferably, although he wouldn't be adverse to a chainsaw and mace, as she suggests. He just hopes it's bloody, because the assignment he's being forced to work on with her is being extremely bothersome and more than a little time-consuming.

"Or you could be a little cleaner about it and go with a dash of poison," she says thoughtfully, her voice low so their teacher doesn't hear them from the front of the classroom. "A bit of arsenic can go a long way, if you know what I mean." Typing a note on the laptop they're sharing, she checks her textbook.

No doubt that approving smile from the witch at the front is for her.

"It's not bloody enough," he counters. "You could make it more interesting than that. What about knives? And other sharp, lethal instruments? Poison is too easy." He can imagine the array of weapons he could use on that witch.

Apparently, all anyone besides them hears is "too easy," prompting a glare from the teacher and a snicker from one of his friends across the room. The look on his face is all too easy to read, and he gives his friend the finger, pulling his hand back just as the teacher turns towards him.

Oblivious as ever, she shakes her head, her brows furrowed. Her tendency to not know anything about her surroundings makes it too easy to steal her belongings, as he does now. "What's with you and _blood_? There's no law that says that every death has to be as gory and disgusting as that. She could be out in seconds, minimal pain, and that would serve our purposes just as well."

"You can be so boring," he complains, tossing a pencil at her when he's sure no one will notice. It's her pencil, but as expected, she absentmindedly picks it up and gives it back. "It's a death. Deaths are fun... if they include blood." He doesn't mean it, of course, only to a small extent - but it's fun to watch her squirm at the thought of bloody murder.

She pauses in her typing, her lips twitching in what he's sure is a smile, however faint. "Boring, hm? What do your prospective girlfriends think about this unhealthy obsession with blood and guts? I'm sure it's... _appealing_ to the girls lined up." Because her back is turned to the rest of the classroom, no one sees the creepy smile or haughty expression, otherwise he's sure their impression of her as sweet and innocent would be forever ruined.

It always comes back to the bet. He can't even tease her properly anymore, because everything he says she's able to counter with a remark about the stupid deal he made at the mall. And the sad thing is - he won't back down. He refuses to do what he keeps telling his friends he'll do. Pulling out would make that smirk on her face permanent, something he doubts he can bear.

His prolonged silence and her furious typing fill the space between them, her basking in the knowledge that she has something to gloat about, he slouching in his chair and twirling her pencil, not really caring who sees or about the assignment, because she'll do it all anyway. Why bother?

"You suck at typing," he says, breaking the silence and insulting her, all at once. It makes him feel slightly better, as if he has the upper hand again. "Didn't you ever learn to type properly, with all your fingers?"

He's hit upon a sore point, because she grimaces and glances at the keyboard. "I type perfectly well, thank you very much," she replies, daring him to disagree. It's a good attempt, and he supposes that his neighbor's cat would be marginally frightened of her, but he's not (thankfully) a cat.

So he does.

"I could probably type ten times faster than you can." Finally, there's the pissed off expression that makes his history period. "Maybe if you moved your hand over a few keys you could manage it," he says, because he feels bad about making her so irritated. Not bad enough that he returns her pencil or everything else he stole, because he continues to toss her eraser in the air, but bad.

"Shut your trap and act like you're doing something productive, for once in your life," she says, although he notices that she follows his advice, silently turning the laptop away so he can't see her hands.

Soon she finishes her section and looks at him. "Don't frown so much, I'm sure your smile is much more attractive." Glancing down at the chart she already knows is finished, she shuffles papers on her desk a while longer, not meeting his eyes. "In any case," she says, "would I be right in guessing that you're not having any luck with the deal we have?"

"Let's just turn this in," he says, his head already hurting from thinking about it, and just when he's thinking that she might have given up on discussing it. "You're done, right?"

"Of course I am - no thanks to you," she replies, giving him a nasty look like the very thought of him freeloading off her makes her sick. "You'll have to go over this later so you're not clueless when we present in a few days."

That's a thousand times simpler than actually writing it, so he shrugs, scrawling his name - with her pencil - across the top of the page and letting her give it to their teacher. The bell rings in two minutes - then she'll have to stop bothering him.

"Have it your way," she says. "But remember - you have a little over half a month left. And I have just the girl for you... if you don't ask first." With that ridiculous smile, she grabs her backpack, snatches the pencil bag he stole from her, and joins someone else a few desks away, talking animatedly with him. When he pushes by her, she doesn't spare him a glance, instead laughing at something the boy next to her said.

She's definitely the most annoying person he's ever had the misfortune to meet. Perhaps he'll use that arsenic on her...?

* * *

**Monday, April 16**

His friends tell him to call it off already.

"You're never this serious about anything," they say. "Forget the girl, forget the bet. Why are you worrying so much?" They sit on benches at the park after school, pretending to do an English assignment but really just shooting the breeze.

"I don't want to let her think she's any better than me," he says, falling back on his usual explanation: pride. It's definitely in character, although perhaps out of character to brood so much over something so insignificant as a bet. His friends words go in one ear and out the other, because he's busy tapping the bench and wondering if her fingers on this metal would sound just the same as it did fifteen days ago.

* * *

**Friday, April 20**

He's not a stalker, not by far.

But he feels like one, standing behind the shelves of the library and peering through the cracks between the books. She's sitting there, chatting with some guy across from the table. The guy nods, listening - _listening_, not hearing, which is far more than he can claim - to her rant about some part of her day. He's eating it up, offering condolences at just the right moments and shaking his head when her rant requires it.

In other words, he's a complete phony.

For now, he's silent, eavesdropping on their conversation and pulling books at random from the shelves. _A Complete and Comprehensive History of WWI_? Sure, why not? He opens the book and leans against the shelf, idly noticing the gruesome pictures on every page. She would hate it.

"And the worst part is, today's Friday. So I can't ask her about it until we come back to school on Monday," she says, sounding worried, irritated, and tired. "I wish she had thought to tell me earlier about the book!"

"I'm sure if you email her she'll understand," the guy across from her says, somewhat awkwardly. From behind the shelves, he takes a chapter from her book and rolls his eyes, laughing inwardly at the response. Cliche and completely and totally boring. Maybe now she'll get up, bid him good-bye, and leave the guy there to wonder where he'd gone wrong. And perhaps he'd stick around to watch that, before leaving to catch his bus.

Unfortunately, she's apparently stopped being predictable. With a smile unlike any she's ever directed at him, she nods and tilts her head. Normally that would give her a slightly sinister look, but in front of this guy she looks as innocent as most people perceive her to be. "Well, of course I'll do that! But thank you for reminding me."

The sweetness in this situation is revolting, and he closes the WWI book before sticking it somewhere along the shelf. Just when he's about to leave - he has better things to do than sit here and watch them bat eyes at each other - she stands up and pushes her chair in. "Thanks for the lesson," she says.

She picks up the geometry textbook from the table, which he hadn't been able to see until just now, and slips it into her backpack. The guy nods, smiles again, and hands a folder of what must be worksheets, because she thanks him again and puts it in her homework binder, the green one with the stickers. He watches, his face pressed to the books, as they walk off.

Because he has the lousiest luck in the world, his phone vibrates. And in the silence it's deafeningly loud. He makes a mental note to turn his phone completely _off_ next time, because there she is, standing at the beginning of the row he's currently occupying, the question written all over her face.

"Bye," she says to the other guy, who's looking at him curiously. He gives him the darkest glare he can, and the guy walks briskly off, letting the library doors swing shut behind him.

"Hi." He's successfully switched off his phone, but it's pointless now. He tries to concentrate on coming up with witty comebacks to whatever she'll ask, but he keeps noticing that her glasses have slipped down her nose again, like they always do. She should look ridiculous like that, peering at him over the top of her glasses and no doubt seeing only a fuzzy blob where he stands.

"It looks bad, you know," she says, gesturing to the obvious space in the books, which gave me a perfect view of their seat. "Books a mess, marks on your face - yes, there are marks on your face! You didn't have to press your face into the spines quite so hard - standing awkwardly behind a shelf..."

It's pretty obvious, he thinks, but if she chooses to be nice about it and pretend it merely _looks_ bad, then her problem. "I was looking for a book," he says, pulling out the book he skimmed through earlier. "It has the nicest pictures." He thrusts the book at her, letting the it open to a full page image of what must be a battlefield.

She frowns, as expected, but she recovers fairly quickly and smiles soon after that. "Don't you have a girl to chase down?" she asks, fake concern layered in her voice. With a wink - not another wink! - she walks out, giving the book to the librarian and pointing to me.

Ten minutes later, he's trying to convince the librarian that he doesn't really want to check out the book, but she won't hear of it. Three minutes after that, he grabs it from her, turning down the complimentary bookmark, and drops it in the return chute on his way out.

* * *

**Thursday, April 26**

He's been ignoring her for the past five days, ever since he caught her and the guy from history hugging between classes. It bothers him much, _much_ more than it should, so he takes the safe route and avoids her whenever possible.

Meanwhile, he's still not sure how to win her bet.

* * *

**Friday, April 27**

"Not so long left!" she says, giving him one of her maniacal smiles as she slides into the seat next to his. She looks pleased, and he doesn't want to know why, because he thinks that if he has to put up with one more word about geometry or her tutoring he'll throw something at her, and it won't be as harmless as a pencil.

"Shut up," he snaps, opening his history binder. He turns away, but not fast enough to miss the look that flashes in her eyes.

* * *

**Monday, April 30**

Right after school, he crashes in bed. She didn't bug him once about the bet today - in fact, she's ignored him since History last week. He supposes the silence must be nice, but he's not feeling any of it. Hence, the four hour nap he plans - screw the chemistry test.

Silence is golden, isn't it?

* * *

**Tuesday, May 1, 2 am**

He calls her, because he knows she's still awake, studying for one class or another. And just as he expected, she picks up the phone, even though she has caller ID and knows his number. There's a long silence after they're connected, although both still hold on to the phone. He knows because he can hear her breathing on the other end.

"You lost," she finally says.

They haven't spoken since he started giving her the cold shoulder five days ago. And she hasn't attempted a conversation with him since four days ago, so the silence shouldn't be anything new. But being on the phone in the middle of the night... and not talking - it feels more awkward than he thought it could be.

"I don't think so," he says. It's true. If she says yes, then he's won, as long as she stays with him until June 1. "You'll have to wait another month for the second phase of your bet to play out, won't you?" he asks.

The surprise is evident in her voice. She's barely able to conceal the shock at his claim, which makes him smile. "You managed it? Really? You really, truly got a girlfriend in the past four days? Are you joking?"

So she's been counting, too.

"No, I'm serious," he promises, nodding as he forgets that she's not watching him. "I asked her if she would go out with me, and even though she hasn't replied, I'm pretty sure she'll say yes." In reality, he's not, but in this _one _case he thinks it would serve him well to be a little optimistic about his chances. Besides, if she says _no_, he loses more than the bet, and he'd rather that not happen.

She doesn't say anything for a long time. He hears paper being moved around, no doubt her copiously taken notes or her set of flashcards for chemistry. "That's good, then," she finally says. "It's kind of late though, you could have waited until tomorrow - later today, really - to tell me. Or emailed me."

"You haven't checked your email yet, have you?" he asks. He knows the answer, but he wants to hear it from her.

A pause. Then - "No, actually, I haven't."

* * *

**Tuesday, May 1, 11:40 am**

It's just a deserted hallway, one of many in the school. Normally, it would be mobbed with students, but lunch started five minutes ago, so the only people remaining are those attending tutorials and a select number of stragglers.

Towards the end of this hallway, two students linger.

"You're not very good at this, are you?" she asks, a genuine, non-feline smile on her face. Her fangs aren't prominent anymore, thanks to the braces she got two weeks ago, but if he looks closely he can still see them jutting out slightly. He wishes she could have kept them the way they were.

"I won, though," he replies. "She said yes, didn't she?"

With a sly grin, she looks at him. "Did she? Did she ever say it to your face?"

Glancing down at their clasped hands, he shakes his head. "No," he says. "But I don't think she needs to."

* * *

**A/N: Hi, everyone. Took a break from _Seasons_ to post this! Definitely Gale/Madge, although I've taken care not to mention any names in the story. Tell me in a review if that or anything else bothered you!**

**Please don't favorite without reviewing. :)**


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